


a life in your shape

by untouchableocean



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, its quite sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 14:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21737872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untouchableocean/pseuds/untouchableocean
Summary: Jenson wonders, Checo doesn't.
Relationships: Jenson Button/Sergio Perez
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	a life in your shape

**Author's Note:**

> sooo i wrote this in like half an hour and it's my first time writing in second person since i was like...14? so, i hope y'all like this. also, jenson/checo? underrated.
> 
> title from strawberry blond by mitski. you know.
> 
> oh, and it's jenson's pov - i would HOPE that's obvious but i can almost sense someone out there won't catch on.

Checo is...good.

He’s quick on track, but he’s quicker sinking to his knees when you ask him to, and sometimes even when you don’t. He’s polite and well behaved for the media but does no such thing in bed, in fact what he does with you is downright sinful. He does what the team tells him to, but more importantly, he does what  _ you _ tell him to.

Sometimes you feel bad.

Like when he falls out of your bed when he thinks you’re asleep and smokes six cigarettes in a row on the balcony of your flat, or when he slips out early in the morning and he thinks you don’t know he’s going to the chapel to cry his eyes out in the confession box, or when he smiles that tiny shaky smile that screams  _ please, please, please don’t ask how I am. _

But then he leans in and you suddenly don’t feel bad anymore, his mouth more than making up for any guilt that clouds your mind. And when you’ve got him on top of you, holding his waist as he bounces on your cock and whimpers your name over and over like a litany - _ Jenson, Jenson, Jenson, fuck, Jenson, fuck- _ it’s so much easier to pretend you don’t feel any sense of shame about this whole thing.

He throws his head back and closes his eyes, his mouth hanging open as he moans a string of Spanish nonsense, running his hand through his hair and letting a single tear sear down his cheek like venom. You grip his hips tightly as you come inside him, taking in every inch of his face as he clenches his jaw, breathing steadily and jerking his hips forwards to get every drop out of you.

Once you’ve recovered your senses you grab his cock and it doesn’t take much to get him off, just a couple of strokes and he’s coming all over your chest. The blush smeared across his face coupled with the unruly strands of hair stuck to his face make him look like a renaissance painting, and the golden light from the lamp furthers the illusion, bathing him in an almost angelic glow.

Afterwards he always curls into your side, and the way he looks up at you from under his fluttering eyelashes betrays more than he intends it to. You never respond, just let him cling onto you, and you know why he does it, but you don’t know if  _ he  _ knows why he does it so you keep your mouth shut to avoid that conversation. 

It’s not that you don’t care. It’s just that you’ve got your own shit to deal with, and you don’t want to complicate his life any more than you already have. Your very presence in his life is a turbulence, an anomaly, something that makes him smoke and pray and cry and you don’t want to amplify that by actually making him  _ talk about it _ .

As he drifts to sleep, you stay awake through no choice of your own. He balls his fist around the collar of your tattered grey sleep shirt and you close your hand over his, and you balk at just how small it seems. Later on, when he sneaks out of your bed and heads out to the balcony, you hear his soft sniffles and a terrifying thought rushes unbidden into your mind; does he know he loves you?

You bury it. There’s no time in your life, nor space in your heart, for that kind of thing.


End file.
